One False Move (7 page)

“This place is pretty cool,” he said before ducking into one of the back bedrooms.

“Yeah, I love it.” And he did. It wasn’t as rustic as it looked. Though the walls were lined in knotty pine and the ceiling made up of rafters, there was also a skylight of small paneled windows, a modern bathroom and shower, a furnace and A/C unit. The kitchenette featured a full-size refrigerator, an electric range and a microwave that had been added since Andrew’s last visit. The screened-in porch that overlooked the lake and the treetops was where he’d be spending the majority of his time, hopefully working late into the night as he had in the past, writing by the flame of a lantern.

This had been his retreat, his sanctuary, and it had never failed him…yet. He had penned his first book here, but he hadn’t been back for several years, too busy to afford himself the luxury of its solitude, its isolation. Instead, he usually ended up writing bits and pieces in airports, waiting for his next flight, or in hotel rooms over cold, mediocre room service. Who would have thought being a writer would include so many hours on the road and in the air? In a strange way the broken collarbone had been a godsend, a painful sign for him to slow down and reassess his priorities. A reminder of why he had wanted to do this in the first place.

“Where’s the TV?” Tommy was back after an inspection of the bathroom.

“There is none.”

“No TV?”

“Nope. No TV, no radio, no phone, no Internet. Can’t even get good reception for my cell phone.”

“Holy crap. How long did you say you’re staying out here?”

“Two weeks.”

“This is why you have no life, buddy. How can you handle being out here by yourself for two fucking weeks?”

“I need to get away from the day-to-day distractions. Besides, I brought a nine-inch portable TV—if that makes you feel better. You know I can’t be away from the news for too long.”

“Day-to-day distractions? I hate to tell you, but that’s just life.” Tommy picked up the case of Bud Light and started putting the bottles carefully in the refrigerator. “So it sounds like you have the same philosophy about writing as you do about fishing,” he said from behind the refrigerator door.

“How’s that?”

“Fishing isn’t about catching fish, right? Sounds to me like writing about life isn’t about living life.”

“Very funny,” Andrew said. But he was annoyed enough to realize that Tommy could be right.

2:30 p.m.

Melanie shoved the overstuffed laundry basket into the closet. She’d get to it tomorrow when things returned to normal. Though somewhere in the back of her mind she knew, she just
knew
that after today, things would never be normal again. It was only a feeling, the kind of feeling that gnaws at your gut. Something about this job of Jared’s didn’t feel right. Maybe she was simply disappointed that Jared and Charlie had been planning this without her. Maybe it was nothing, too much coffee at the restaurant when she had been trying so hard to do without. How had she ever expected to give up coffee and her smokes at the same time? Too much, too soon. Who did she think she was? Her gut instinct, she realized, had never been wrong before. In the past it had stopped her from doing some pretty stupid things. She reached for the Pepto-Bismol, screwed off the child-protective cap and took a swig from the bottle.

She loaded her own backpack with a change of clothes and some other necessities. She stopped at the mirror, tucking a strand of hair up under the baseball cap. It had been an effort to contain her thick, shoulder-length hair, first making a ponytail and then stacking it on top of her head. If she had had more warning she would have had it cut. More warning—how much trouble would that have been? There it was again, her anger. Wow! When had she decided it was anger instead of disappointment?

Melanie turned away from the mirror and added a couple of granola bars to the backpack. Jared promised they’d be home before nightfall, and he would say the backpack wasn’t necessary. He was probably right. Maybe, like Charlie, she needed her own security blanket this time.

She heard a car pull in to the driveway and glanced at her wristwatch. Right on time. But when she looked out the window, she didn’t recognize the dark blue sedan. She did, however, recognize the car’s emblem. Another fucking Saturn. What was it with that boy and Saturns?

She opened the front door, holding it for Charlie while she stood on the porch scanning the surrounding houses, catching a glimpse of curtains swinging back into place in the brick bungalow across the street. Old Mrs. Clancy noticed everything in the neighborhood, but thankfully, she kept her mouth shut, whether out of respect or fear Melanie didn’t much care. She didn’t need some busybody reporting her every time a strange car appeared in her driveway. But, as Melanie watched Charlie, she couldn’t help wondering what old Mrs. Clancy was thinking, because she knew the woman was watching from somewhere in her house.

Charlie’s usual T-shirt and baggy jeans had been replaced by dark coveralls, the zip-up kind with long sleeves. The coveralls looked out of place in the ninety-degree heat. What looked odder was his bright white high-top Nikes peeking out from under the pant cuffs. That boy took better care of his shoes than his hygiene, which didn’t matter much today. He’d be a sweaty mess within a few hours of wearing those coveralls. He had a red bandana tied around his neck, the knot loose and hanging into the collar of the coveralls. Melanie wanted to laugh. Jesus! They weren’t seriously thinking of pulling the kerchiefs around their faces like some Wild West bank robbers, were they?

Already she could see lines of sweat running down Charlie’s forehead, trailing along his jawline, white lines through the instant-suntan cream he must have applied just before coming over. She wondered, if and when his head started sweating, would the black hair dye leave streaks of red down his neck? His entire disguise could be ruined by perspiration. But Charlie seemed totally unaware of any possible problems.

He walked up the sidewalk with his usual easy stroll, whistling. It wasn’t until he was on the porch that she recognized the tune from “Green Acres,” the old TV show. The boy could be a walking commercial for “Nick at Nite” programming.

She waited until he was inside the house, the door closed behind them before she said, “That’s your idea of a getaway car?”

“What? It’s a 2004. Has less than five thousand miles on it. And the windows are tinted. Ain’t nobody gonna see inside that son of a bitch unless they have their eyes plastered up against the window.”

She had to admit it looked brand new. Probably taken from another dealers’ lot, although it didn’t have dealer plates. She didn’t need to ask. She knew he had already taken care of them, switching the stolen car’s license plates with a pair he would have taken from the airport’s long-term parking or from one of the apartment complexes in West Omaha. Someplace where the switch wouldn’t be noticed for a few days, maybe even weeks. How many people would recognize their license plates were different? The boy was good. Fast. Efficient. But predictable. She tried to drill into his thick skull that it was the common, small mistakes that usually tripped up the best of the best. A speeding ticket, an unpaid tax bill or one too many stolen Saturns.

“Where’s Jared?” she asked. “I thought you were picking him up.”

“He had an errand. We’ll pick him up on our way. You’re supposed to be wearing your coveralls.” Charlie had his hands on his hips, assessing her blue jeans and T-shirt.

“It’s too fucking hot for coveralls. Besides, I’m gonna be in the car. You already said nobody’ll even see me behind those tinted windows.”

He didn’t look convinced. She pulled the baseball cap down over her forehead and put on a pair of dark sunglasses. “This is all the disguise I’m agreeing to.”

“Okay,” he said, giving in too easily. “Do we have anything good to eat that I can take with me?” And he headed to the kitchen, not waiting for an answer. He opened the fridge, pulling out the makings for a sandwich.

“Jesus, Charlie! We’re on our way to rob a bank and you’re packing a picnic?”

“Just a sandwich.” He swiped gobs of Miracle Whip on the bread and began building a pile of deli meat and cheese, layering one after another. “Unless you got some chips, too?” He looked up at her and grinned, that stupid, lopsided grin.

She hesitated but only for a second. It had always been hard to deny him anything. Almost six feet tall, but he was still her baby. She began rummaging through the pantry, pulling out an unopened bag of Ruffles. She tossed it on the counter where he already had a Ziploc bag waiting and another grin to get her to fill it for him. She opened the bag, wondering if there were any cold sodas for them to take, too.

3:15 p.m.
Peony Park HyVee

Grace Wenninghoff wrinkled her nose as Emily dropped the Hostess Cupcakes into their shopping cart.

“Emily…”

“They’re so yummy. And you said—”

“I
said
you could have them as long as you picked out some fruit, too.”

She pointed to the produce section, expecting a protest. The truth was, Grace probably would have given in without her daughter’s compliance. She was feeling enough guilt to let Emily have a whole carton of Hostess Cupcakes. In the last month Emily had been a trouper, adjusting to their crosstown move better than either Grace or Vince. And now her dad was gone for over a week.

Grace had left work early and picked up Emily from Grandma Wenny’s in the hopes that the two of them could spend some girl time together. Something they hadn’t done much of since the move. Maybe Grace needed a break from their routine, an escape from the stress, more than Emily did. In fact, Emily had taken everything all in stride. She had made a fort out of the boxes in her room and decorated the antique dresser and mirror left by the previous owner with pictures of Disney characters. She had even created a new imaginary friend to share the adventure with.

“Bitsy likes Hostess Cupcakes, too,” Emily said, mentioning her imaginary friend as though she had read Grace’s mind.

At first Grace hadn’t liked the idea of her daughter spending so much time and effort with someone who didn’t exist. It seemed a bit odd. She worried Emily wouldn’t be able to relate to real kids after spending so much time with one who did and said anything she wanted. However, Vince insisted that make-believe friends for four-year-olds were just a normal part of growing up. It had certainly not been a part of Grace’s childhood. She tried to imagine what her logical and practical Grandma Wenny would have said had Grace dared to introduce an invisible friend. She probably would have blamed it on Grace’s addiction to Nancy Drew novels and Batman comic books.

Vince, on the other hand, claimed to have spent a good portion of kindergarten with an imaginary friend named Rocco. It still made Grace smile just thinking about it. Leave it to the scrawny Italian kid to invent some little mafioso to protect him. Sometimes she looked at pictures of him as a child and saw Emily, tiny and so vulnerable looking but with a spirit as tough as nails.

“What are these, Mommy?” Emily had picked up a kiwi in each of her small hands and was trying to hold them carefully without squeezing.

“They’re called kiwi. They’re sweet and good. You wanna try ’em?”

Emily looked them over, turning them first one way then another, gently rubbing her fingers over their fuzzy surface. Then, with a serious, furrowed look, she shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so. They look like monkey heads.”

“Monkey heads?” Grace laughed.

“Little green monkey heads.” And Emily began giggling, too. She was soon laughing so hard that, when she went to put the two kiwis back on top of the stack, she set off an avalanche. “Oh, no, there go all the monkey heads.”

Emily stood still, watching helplessly, her lower lip starting to pucker in what Grace recognized as a four-year-old’s fine line of not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“Come on, Em. Help me pick up these monkey heads before we both get into trouble.”

The two of them began scrambling to pick up the rolling fruit. Soon Emily was giggling again. Grace’s arms were full of kiwi when she noticed Emily on her hands and knees, staring at the last kiwi captured under the toe of a scuffed tennis shoe.

Grace looked up and almost dropped the fruit in her arms. Jared Barnett smiled down at her, his dark eyes like hollow-point bullets, empty but dangerous. He stood there with his toe holding the last piece of fruit hostage, as if there was nothing unusual about him being here, as if it were a mere coincidence.

“I didn’t know you had such a beautiful little girl, Counselor,” he said casually, but his tone injected ice-cold liquid into her veins.

“Emily, come here.” Grace kept her own voice calm, trying not to alarm her daughter, yet unable to move. Somehow her knees had decided to go spongy. Emily, however, was focused on retrieving the last kiwi, waiting with fingers ready to grab it when the shoe was lifted.

“Emily.” This time it sounded like a scold and she regretted it even before Barnett grinned. He stooped down and retrieved the fruit himself, handing it to Emily.

Grace held her breath, wanting to tell her child not to take it, not to touch it. As if to do so would contaminate her, would burn her with his evil. But, instead, she waited while Emily took the last kiwi and put it on the pile. Then Grace grabbed Emily’s hand and shoved the shopping cart forward, moving them away from Jared Barnett as quickly as she could, feeling his stare like pinpricks on the back of her neck.

“Who is that man, Mommy? Do I know him?”

“No. He’s nobody.” She pushed the cart to a free checkout counter. “Why don’t you watch the man bag our groceries. You like doing that, right?” Grace helped her squeeze past the cart to the end of the conveyor belt, and immediately Emily’s attention transferred to the boy carelessly tossing items into the plastic bags.

Grace glanced around the store, checking to see where he might be, then pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number, needing to redo it because her fingers kept hitting the wrong numbers.